Dragonshade (The Secret Chronicles of Lost Magic Book 2)

by Aderyn Wood

  The wall of enemy soldiers had drawn closer now. The battle cries beyond had faded. Phadite had abandoned them.

  “Urul has won, Prince Hog. Do you know what that means?” Rabi asked.

  Sargan frowned.

  “It means I am to be super king. A king of kings. The one king to rule all Zraemia.”

  “It’s true, brother.” Hadanash stepped forward. “Think of the prophecy. I am the blaze bearer.” He indicated Rabi with his hand. “King Amar-Ra became the one true king when King Amar-Eshu’s head was removed by the barbarian.”

  Sargan’s gaze shifted back to the fight. Danael thrust the blazing sword at Uncle Mutat, missing him by a whisker. Mutat's face filled with panic as woosh after woosh of flame came at him, and Danael's sword finally met its mark, twice, thrice. Danael was winning.

  “Think, brother.” Hadanash was shaking his head. “I tried to warn our father, but he wouldn’t listen. He never listened. He preferred the company of the weasel Qisht to that of his own son. He got it wrong, Sargan. All wrong. And when I saw it for the truth. When Grand Blessed Lipit revealed it to me—”

  “Lipit?”

  Hadanash nodded. “He saw me twice during my stay in Urul. Him and Grand Blessed Zuran explained the Aurannan in full, and its prophecy. I didn’t believe it at first, but in time, it all fell into place. The truth was such a threat to our dear father, he had the high priest murdered. Poisoned.”

  Sargan took in the scene around him. His father’s head was bent at such a strange angle it seemed as though it would fall off completely any moment. Danael and Uncle Mutat still fought. And the battle carried on around them. Yes, it all made sense now. He could see how the Urulans and his brother had interpreted the prophecy in their favour. Hadanash the blaze bearer, protector of the rightful king. Their army of slaves, the foreign horde of Drakians, and the fact that King Amar-Eshu’s head had been removed. But it was a flawed interpretation.

  “It is the father-king whose head must be removed to allow for the one king to rise,” Sargan said quietly. “Not brother-king. There’s nothing written about brother-king. Not in any Aurannan I’ve read.”

  “What?” Rabi laughed, before opening his arms and gesturing to the wider scene. “Look around you, Hoglet. Your city is done. Your father, slaughtered by his own son, and you want to quibble over a small detail. The prophecy is happening as we speak. I am the rightful king!”

  Sargan shook his head.

  Rabi glanced at Hadanash. “Perhaps we should simply kill him.”

  Hadanash raised his hands. “No, Exalted. I told you. I will deliver you my sister if we allow Sargan to live.”

  “But I am king of all now. I don’t need you, Hadanash. I will take your sister without your permission.” Rabi turned back to Sargan. “And I never liked you, Hoglet. You’re weak. There’s no place for the weak in my new realm.” Rabi raised his sword. “Let’s see how you fight. Surely you’ve improved.”

  Sargan’s heart pounded in his ears. “I’m not a soldier, Rabi. You know it.”

  “It’s King Amar-Ra. But you know that, don’t you, Hoglet.” Rabi edged closer. “Raise your sword, Prince Sargan.”

  Sargan’s hand was still on the sword hilt. Beyond the line of enemy soldiers the fighting continued, but the enemy was too strong. Too many. The Drakians held their own lines, and the close confines meant only so many soldiers could enter the battle proper. But how long would they hold?

  Danael and Mutat battled on, the blade blazing. Father’s head still hung at an impossible angle.

  Sargan took a deep breath as he twirled the sword in his grip and planted his feet, just as Danael had shown him.

  Rabi’s smile broadened. “That’s it. Now, let us decide the fate of the world.”

  Sargan held the sword in front of him, but his eyes went to the temple atop the palace. Sister, now is the time, or all is lost.

  And everything happened at once.

  Mutat's seared flesh filled the air with its stench, and his roars of pain cut through the melee as Danael finally ran him through in the gut. Mutat's face changed to a look of utter astonishment as he fell to his death. Danael turned and, strangely, dove over the gunwale, into the river.

  Rabi raised his sword.

  A shadow crept over everything, so large it seemed to cover the entire city. Fire, great spumes of it filled the sky. And Heduanna’s voice rang in his head, blocking all other sounds.

  Dive in the river. Now! The river!

  Sargan roared as his body was forced into action as though the goddess herself drove his legs. He threw his sword and dodging Rabi’s strike he drove his shoulder into the rat's gut and charged like an ox-bull.

  “What are you doing?” Rabi screamed. “Get your sword and fight like a man.”

  Sargan thrust forward until Rabi slammed into the gunwale. He was dimly aware that others were already jumping into the river.

  “You coward. You coward!” Rabi shrieked.

  Sargan glanced back ever so briefly and his eyes shifted upward to where a beast so large it filled the sky flew down toward them, its maw open, the beginnings of fire sparkling in its throat.

  Get in the water, stay down. Heduanna’s voice rang constantly and again his body was swept along. He took a breath, shoved Rabi with all his might, and fell, plunging into the river.

  The water was cool, but Sargan surfaced quickly to see an image that would cement in his memory forever. The world was afire, and from the golden maelstrom the screams of his brother pierced the air. Then Sargan saw him. Hadanash, ablaze, staggered to the gunwale, but lacked the strength to tumble over. Sargan's burning brother crumpled amongst the high flames on the galley and disappeared in the blaze.

  Sargan submerged to cool his head, and came up again to find a sputtering Rabi, red-faced with eyes flashing and panic making his voice high.

  “Sargan! I can’t swim. I can’t SWIM!”

  “I know.” Sargan opened his mouth wide and expanded his lungs before diving and dragging Rabi by his belt ever down. Rabi kicked and punched, but Sargan was a strong swimmer. It wasn’t long before the rat stopped his struggle and his body fell to the river’s depths without Sargan’s help. A look of bewilderment had frozen on the young king’s face.

  Fight like a man, Rat.

  Sargan swam to face the fiery sky beyond the water’s surface. All glowed red and gold, and columns of black smoke spiralled up like snakes ready to strike.

  Heduanna

  Heduanna was in the realm known as the Otherworld. Zamug had taught her the name. She had much power, too, thanks to the dragonshade. She’d swallowed every last bit of the black orb. It had taken quite some time to dissolve in the simmering water, and Heduanna had waited impatiently knowing the enemy had already begun their killing in the city below. But the citizens had been evacuated through the night. At least they were safe from enemy and fire alike.

  Their soldiers, the few Azzurians and those from their leal cities, had joined with the Drakians and waited in formation either on the remaining war galleys or along the river. They had to protect her father and brother, and they had to listen when she called to them if they were to survive this battle. She could feel each and every one of them. Every soldier’s anger. Every warrior’s fury. As well as their fear. She was connected to them now, the goddess wished it so.

  The dragonshade had burned so deep when she’d drunk it she thought her throat had caught fire, and the heat in her blood was a strange mix of pleasure and pain. But she’d forced her body to the temple above and now sat in Phadite’s chair. This was the seat of power from her visions. This was the moment she’d foreseen. Her physical self was still in that chair. Her veins, still burning.

  But it was all irrelevant now.

  Heduanna floated in the Otherworld. The colours of the city were shadowy. The river, a silver twisting vein that ran through the red flesh of the desert.

  She’d spied Yana the instant she entered her trance. The huge fiery beast flew fast and fu
rious in the purple sky – a strange combination of Yana and the dragon. Heduanna was connected to Yana too, and she guided her dragon-form closer.

  And now, the dragon’s fire destroyed the enemy. Heduanna’s connection to the soldiers protecting Azzuri had saved them, and mostly they remained safe in the waters of the river.

  Below, the dragon has spewed more fire and the galleys were all ablaze. Behold, Heduanna thought as she watched Yana in dragon form, the blaze bearer. The saviour who will protect the one true king.

  Laughter gripped Heduanna at the thought, the irony of her brother Sargan being that rightful king. But the feeling was fleeting. Of course he was. There was no one more suited for the role to bring Zraemia together as one.

  And Heduanna turned her attention back to guiding Yana. It was important the dragon dispatched every last soldier in the enemy army, eliminating all Sargan’s foes in one Great War, and paving the way for a lasting peace. Heduanna could feel the goddess’s approval in the very depths of her existence.

  In her trance, the plumes of smoke appeared as purplish-blue columns that bruised the orange sky. Sounds came to her too. The screams of the enemy. The screech of the dragon. The crackle and doom of a city on fire.

  Her connection remained strong, and she knew of her father’s death, and of Hadanash – one of the first to die from dragon flame, not the very first though, that had been Mutat. Danael was safe.

  The enemy king was dead, and now a new king would rise. A new king for the dawn of a new age. A king of kings. Sargan.

  Child.

  The voice, so familiar, came from behind. The voice from the visions. Heduanna slowly began to retract to her physical self once more, but before she could make the leap, something stalled her.

  An entity was standing by the temple, next to the seat where Heduanna’s body had slumped. The entity changed form, slowly morphing from a figure of bark to a man with skin so dark it appeared made of rock, then it changed again and a woman stood before her. The woman smiled. It is done, child. It is time for you to come with us.

  Heduanna blinked and raised her head. Her body felt heavy and listless, and she realised she was reunited with her physical self once more. But Phadite was still there, on the terrace. A giant woman with her hand outstretched, waiting for her.

  “I don’t want to leave.”

  There is no going back for you, child. Your place is with us now.

  Tears welled in Heduanna’s eyes and she suddenly felt the pain in every part of her body. The dragonshade had poisoned her. Phadite was right. There was no going back.

  “Please, my sweet goddess,” Heduanna whispered. “One more thing I ask of you, and then I shall come willingly."

  Phadite the great deity waited. Her dark hair whirled around her face as though she wore a wig of a thousand snakes. Her violet eyes shone with a light all their own. What is it, my child? You have been a brave servant, I will grant you one more thing.

  Heduanna smiled, and despite her pain, she asked her boon of the goddess.

  Phadite closed her eyes for a moment, extinguishing the light in her gaze, then she looked up. It is done. Now come with me, young goddess.

  Sargan

  Sargan sat in his father’s chair in his father’s office. The chair felt too big, even for Sargan’s arse. He shifted continuously, failing to gain any comfort. The room was filled with the few surviving leaders. They could fit around the oval table with ease. They all glanced at him with mixed emotions conveying their relief for a battle won, and bitterness that the king had died. But there was something else in their furtive glimpses. An undeniable light of hope, and that made Sargan more uncomfortable.

  They sized each other up too. Sargan’s uncles Dannu and Thedor both disagreed with Sargan’s hasty decision to pardon the survivors on the enemy side. But the few soldiers still alive had only obeyed orders from their captains and commanders. How could an ordinary soldier go against the orders of the heir-prince? Hadanash was not a man they would want to displease, and everyone knew the king was not well. They expected Hadanash to be their next king. No, Sargan couldn’t blame them.

  But it was Sargan’s forgiveness of certain others that had got under his uncles’ noses. Sargan’s Uncle-commander Ru was found alive and well, hiding under a pile of wet refuse by the river. He’d begged Sargan’s forgiveness, as did his cousins Ilbrit and Jusuran, Mutat’s last surviving sons. Sargan allowed them to walk free, and even invited them to this meeting of leaders. Thedor and Dannu had actually raised their voices at Sargan, in the quest to get him to “see reason” about the traitors, and Qisht had offered his most sage counsel, quietly reminding him of Ilbrit’s barbarity in the ring, in an attempt to have Sargan change his mind. Danael only wanted to run them through with his sword, and sitting around the table, Sargan feared the tall Drakian might just do that if things got out of hand. Fortunately, he’d told the guards to take all weapons before allowing anyone to enter.

  He had to offer them sanctuary. Sargan knew more about the history of Zraemia than any other around this table. He would take the lessons history offered. The words of his favourite historian, Herodot rang in his mind, ‘extend your hand to your enemy, and he is your enemy no longer’. In any case, they’d prove useful in the coming days and years.

  Uncle Ru, Ilbrit and Jusuran sat at the far end of the long table, and were clearly uncomfortable with the seething stares they received from the others. On Sargan’s right sat his uncles, Thedor and Dannu, with Danael and Commanders Ru, Tizgar and Ubranum. On his left sat Blessed Siduri, Zamug and Enlil, who’d just returned from the desert that morning. They’d brought the group of sick Azzurians with them. But Zamug had surprised everyone when he’d announced the sick were sick no longer. Their symptoms had somehow disappeared in less than a heartbeat. Sargan believed his sister had something to do with that, the timing could be naught else. He sent up a quick prayer to her, and Phadite.

  King Thedas of Praeta sat beside the desert men, and the last remaining Amar King still leal to Azzuri, King Amar-Nasir sat beside Thedas. Kings, it turned out, were a rarity in Zraemia now. Eleven dead kings had been counted amongst the ruins so far, seven of them had been Amars. The thought made Sargan’s stomach swirl and he shifted on the chair once more.

  This time yesterday, he’d faced the edge of Rabi’s blade. But now Rabi, the last King of Urul, was dead. Sargan’s father was dead. His brother, and his sister, both dead. Sargan was alone.

  The dragon had saved them. Sargan had stood on the riverbank and watched the great beast as it took a last loop over the burning city, before it bent a wing and turned to the west. He watched those great wings fold up and down until they were swallowed by the horizon.

  Yana had something to do with that dragon, and Sargan wished he could find her to ask. But she remained lost. He worried she was dead also, but something in his heart told him it wasn’t true.

  Qisht was fussing with cups and ordering the servants to bring more jugs of ale. Keeping busy seemed to help him with his own private grief. Sargan sighed. He still had Qisht.

  “Qisht,” Sargan said, pointing to an empty chair by Amar-Nasir. “Please join us.”

  Qisht shook his head, his swollen eyes glancing at the end of the table. For once he wore no makeup and the grief and exhaustion aged him ten sommers.

  Sargan pursed his lips. “It’s an order, my friend.”

  The head slave blinked and slowly took a seat.

  Sargan reluctantly sat forward. “Very well, who wants to begin?”

  A moment of silence followed in which more glances were cast around.

  “What is our next step?” Sargan asked.

  “I would have thought it obvious, Exalted,” King Thasus of Praeta replied.

  Sargan held up a hand. “I’m no king.”

  “The ceremony has not been performed,” Blessed Siduri said with a nod of her head. “But you are ruler now.”

  “Our one ruler, too,” Amar-Nasir added.

  Sargan�
��s finger itched where the heir-ring had been placed. It was too small, and he wore it on his little finger. It irritated him. He’d never worn jewelry before, and he wished he could take the damn thing off.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Thasus nodded at Nasir.

  “It’s important we get things back to normal as soon as possible,” Thedor said. “Work continues on cleaning up the streets.”

  “I agree,” Uncle Ru added.

  “I don’t care for your agreement,” Thedor responded with ice in his voice.

  “There are bigger ideals to discuss now than merely getting back to normal,” Thasus said. “This is the dawn of a new age.”

  Sargan’s cheeks flushed, he knew where the talk was heading. “What of the other cities? Do we know anything of their intent?” Sargan looked at Qisht who shrugged.

  “With so many dead, it is difficult to say,” Qisht responded. “I will organise messengers, if his Exalted wishes.”

  “Urul is finished if that’s what you’re wondering,” Ilbrit spoke, his voice gruff and blunt just like his father’s had been. He had burns on his face and arms, their scars would cause permanent restrictions to his movements. His days as Azzuri’s most able swordsmen were over. “Amar-Ra didn’t even name an heir. Though Princess Adula would be ruling there now. The entire army was involved here, as were the armies of all Urul’s leal cities, both old and new.” Ilbrit shook his head. “All those soldiers dead. All of East Zraemia, and most of the west, is now bereft of an army.”

  “Only because you chose the wrong king,” Dannu snapped.

  Ilbrit glared at him a moment before staring at his cup.

  “Perhaps Adula should marry our Sargan?” Jusuran replied, the old teasing look in his eye, but it quickly faded when he spied a glare from his uncles.

  Sargan couldn’t deny the rush of satisfaction that simple action brought him. But he knew such emotions would tempt him now, especially if he were to become the one king. Such power would be corruptive. He had to be aware of its temptations and keep them at bay.